Distraction
by Science-Fantasy93
Summary: Draco is in desperate need of a distraction. And it just so happens that the bushy haired bookworm needs a distraction as well. Draco's got the perfect plan...As long as Granger agrees to it. Set during their sixth year.


Disclaimer that I don't own Harry Potter, that this wonderful world belongs to J.K Rowling. 

* * *

_**Distraction  
**_

He was watching her again.

Wait, shit, no. That made him sound like a creep. Certainly he _felt_ like a creep, but it couldn't be helped, not really. Fact of the matter was that there was just something about the dark haired witch that drew his eye, no matter the circumstances. It could be in the great hall at dinner as she laughed at something Potter had said. It could be in potions, when her hair was so thick it resembled a very angry cloud. And it could be right now, in the library, when he was supposed to be studying. He was doing his damnest to focus on the paper he was trying to get through for Snape and his Defense Against the Dark Arts class (he was beginning to think the rumors were right – anyone who assigned a three-foot-length essay on the intricacies of trolls on a Friday was just evil), but his gaze kept flickering across the library to where Hermione Granger was sitting.

As Draco chewed on the end of his quill, he vaguely wondered if she was working on the same essay as him. He was too far away to see which books were spilled out on the table, but he suspected that the big black tome she was poring over was the one that dissected every single boring nuance of trolls – of which, apparently, there were many.

As he observed her, she scratched away at her parchment, quill gripped tightly in her small hand. Not, of course, that he spent much time looking at her hands – or any other body part for that matter – just that she was rather petite and so, naturally, it would make sense for her to have small hands. Slender fingers. Soft, smooth, gentle – shit, he really was a creep.

Draco suspected that he might not feel like such a freak if it wasn't for the fact that he was ogling Hermione Granger, the muggle-born bushy-haired geeky know-it-all whose teeth could be seen from the other end of the castle. He should have been lounging in the Slytherin common room with Pansy draped all over him, just like last year. But something had changed. He couldn't quite put his finger on what it was, but something was very different now. Perhaps it was the task the Dark Lord had sent him out to do. Daunting and impossible, it loomed up before him with the haunting power of a dementor and the cold stare of a sphinx. It was coming up on Christmas, and so far he had failed miserably.

But somewhere, somehow, in that shadow of dread and darkness, he had found a small thing, something entirely inconsequential really, to look forward to. And that thing was Hermione Granger.

Perhaps his attraction to her had begun that first day in Slughorn's potions class, when for the first time in living history, Harry Fucking Potter, the Boy with the Fucking Hideous Scar, bested them both at a potion. Maybe it had been the look of barely concealed rage, the way her teeth (much smaller than a couple years before, he hadn't been able to help noticing) had nearly bit through her bottom lip in fury. She hated being second best possibly even more than he did. And it had to be even worse for her because Potter – Perfect, Wonderful Potter, the good-for-nothing Chosen One – had beat her out for first place. But it had been more than that. In the past, he had seen her cry in embarrassment. He had seen her roll her eyes and take the higher road. But he had also seen her lose control that one time when she had slapped him smack across the face. His cheeks still stung at the memory. What he had never seen before was her come so close to losing her temper at one of her best friends. And in that moment she had become much more than the muggle-born who sauntered around Hogwarts with Twiddle-Dee and Twiddle-Dumb-Arse. She had become a thing of beauty.

At least, that was how he chose to remember it. In reality his pants under his robes had grown a bit tight and he'd had to do some awkward shifting to make sure that no one noticed. And in the three months that had followed, his fascination with her had deepened. She had seemed to forgive Potter for his sudden burst of potions proficiency, though she certainly still seemed irritated by it. She continued to try to answer every single question that a professor ever asked. And she still attempted to prove that she was the best and the brightest and that no one could ever come close.

Three months after their first potions class under the thumb of Slughorn, and Draco still couldn't seem to shake his attraction to Granger. It was disgusting, really, yet somehow invigorating. She was such a good girl, yet that first day in the potions classroom he had realized that there was a whole other side to her that most people would never get to see. And as he unwillingly probed those thoughts, he discovered that he wanted to be one of those people. He wanted to see what else there was to her.

Suddenly Granger shut her book with a loud _snap_. Draco nearly jumped out of his chair in shock, and quickly straightened up, glancing around surreptitiously. He and Granger were two of the four students in the library at that moment – a fourth year sat in a corner, scrawling out what appeared to be an order form for Weasley Wizard Wheezes; and a seventh year combed the shelves in the restricted section with a long list of titles and a harried expression. No one was paying attention to Draco, no one was paying attention to Granger, but people would _definitely_ pay attention if Draco approached Granger.

But he had planned ahead, though he had barely been able to admit what he'd been doing to himself. He had purposefully plunked himself at a table near the library door, so that when Granger left she would have to walk by him. He didn't intend to say anything. Mostly he just wanted to inhale the scent of her new perfume – nutmeg and cinnamon, very Chrismas-y he had to admit – and daydream about what he would do if he could ever catch her under the mistletoe.

This was beginning to sound like a crush. And Malfoys didn't have crushes. Not now, not ever, damn it.

Well, he was already failing at his unofficial extracurricular task. He might as well fail at being a Malfoy as well.

Growling at that unpleasant thought, he hitched his parchment straight and willed his mind to focus on the passage he had been pretending to stare at for the past twenty minutes. But his attention was once again diverted by Granger corking her bottle of ink and rolling up her parchment. He couldn't help but gape at it and feel a bit inadequate – it appeared to be nearly four feet long. He knew Snape's favorite game was to play favorites, but even Snape couldn't ignore an essay that would be as detailed and focused as Granger's certainly would, especially on such a deplorably tedious subject.

Draco stared forlornly down at his own parchment. He hadn't even written half a foot. He had been so busy pretending not to notice Granger that he had forgotten what was laid right out in front of him – that he was quickly slipping from Snape's list of favorite students, and Snape would not be so quick to dismiss a half-assed essay now.

He slumped back in his chair, suddenly exhausted. His head ached, his eyes stung with exhaustion, and he was suddenly in desperate need of coffee. "Fuck this," he muttered. "Fuck everything."

"You should know what an appalling attitude that is," came an all-too familiar, all-too feminine voice.

Draco found himself staring up into Granger's eyes. They were the exact shade of milk chocolate. He loved milk chocolate.

He quickly shook himself out of his lovelorn rapture. "And you should know that I don't actually care. Go _away_."

Instead of going away like he had politely demanded her to do, she leaned over the table and peered at his barely written essay. She frowned. "This bit is wrong. It's _giants_ that live in secret mountain societies and have wars about who the clan leader is."

"I didn't _ask_ for your help," he snapped, tugging his parchment way from her bossy gaze. "And I don't need it. I was just filling in a bit to get the ball rolling, nothing more."

"Right." She didn't look convinced. "Well, I'm sure you have nothing to worry about, what with Snape playing favorites and all that."

Draco gritted his teeth. If only he could still rely on Snape's love for nepotism, but that snitch was out of sight. "I notice Potter didn't join you tonight," he commented, torn between wanting her to go away and wanting to keep the conversation going. A part of him desperately begged to insult her – he didn't want her to get the wrong idea. Yet he couldn't bring himself to call her one of his usual names, or to jeer about Weasley going off with Lavender Brown instead of with her. "I thought he was your sidekick, through and through?"

" _My_ sidekick?" she repeated. "I think you have that backwards, Malfoy."

"It certainly seems that he's your sidekick, at least during these trying times with Weasel the Wheeze."

"Is that supposed to be a jab at Ron?" Granger demanded, eyes flashing warningly.

He stretched out leisurely. "Yes, I suppose it is. Not up to my usual standards I suppose, but Weasel certainly isn't up to his usual standards, considering who he's moved on to snogging the last couple weeks."

"Ron and I have _never_ snogged!" Granger retorted furiously, her eyes blazing, her cheeks flaming red hot.

"Well, good, because his technique isn't very refined. He could use some work, but he isn't going to get that with Brown." He had no idea why he was even saying any of this. It wasn't as if he particularly cared if Weasel was a lousy kisser. And he couldn't give a rats arse about Lavender Brown. But what he did know was that the topic of Ron Weasley had definitely gotten Granger suitably worked up, and he quite enjoyed the expression of fury on her face, even if it was directed at him.

Or was it? Her livid look had quieted rather quickly after his last comment, and she was now peering at him in a sort of appraising way.

"There may be some truth to that," she admitted grudgingly. "Not, of course, that it matters to me."

"Of course not. You two have just been destined to get together since our first year. Hell, the whole school knows you would die for each other. But doesn't it seem boring?" And again, he had no idea where any of this was coming from, or even where this was going. All he knew was that he was talking and talking and couldn't stop, couldn't stop, he was going to get himself into so much trouble –

"Doesn't _what_ seem boring?" she demanded, placing her hands on her hips primly. "Being willing to die for your best friend?"

"No. That sounds like useless loyalty to me. What does sound boring is the idea that you'll end up with someone, no matter how horrible a match you might be, because of a few adventures and a couple of comments. The whole school has decided that your fate is sealed, Granger. Right now, this is just a temporary distraction for Weasley. He'll fight fate, snog another girl, and in a few months he'll be pitter-pattering on his little weasel paws back to you. And you'll date, marry, and live happily ever after. But really, who wants that?" And now he was on his feet, towering over her, and he had no idea why he had even stood up, just that he had a point to make –

She glared up at him, and she looked angry again, but there was something in her eyes – a glimmer, perhaps – that told him that she was actually intrigued by what he was saying.

"You can't tell me that you never figured that you and Weasley would end up together forever."

"Why is it any business of yours?"

"Think about it," he replied. "Weasley has his distraction from your preordained fate. Don't you want yours?"

"And what do you suggest I do to distract myself from the prospect of a happily ever after with a boy who can't even keep his promise to escort me to Slughorn's Christmas party?" Granger gritted out, and Draco knew he was on the right track.

He smiled, not a care in the world as far as she knew. "Oh, I'm sure I can think of something."

She drew herself up to her full height, eyes narrowing, hair seeming to spark with electricity. "Only in your dreams and my nightmares, Malfoy."

 _Every night_.

"Sounds like rather pleasant nightmares to me."

Her cheeks reddened again and she hitched her bag properly over her shoulder. "Good night, Malfoy!" She turned to storm off but she paused and faced him once more. "Oh, and by the way? You spelled your name wrong." With that she marched purposefully and indignantly out of the library.

Draco turned back to his essay. "What the hell…?" Sure enough, he had spelled his name _Drico_ _Malfoi_. "Shit," he muttered. "I'm losing my mind. And all over _her_."

Resigned, he dropped back into his seat and set about fixing the spelling of his name. That, at least, he could handle.

* * *

Hermione had fully intended to put all thoughts of Draco Malfoy out of her mind for the rest of the night. She had certainly had the best intentions. But as she blindly moved past Ron and Lavender, who were tangled up in a chair and appeared to be sharing a sugar quill, she couldn't help but mentally replay the conversation with the Slytherin.

Had he _propositioned_ her? It certainly appeared so. But why? For a laugh? As some sort of nasty joke? Or had he been serious?

She wasn't sure what scared her more – the idea that it had been a joke to him, or that he had truly meant for her to use him as a distraction until Ron got his head out of his ass.

She wandered up the girls' staircase, to her dormitory. The room appeared to be empty, so she plopped down on her bed, spreading out. She needed to think. She had prefect patrol with Malfoy the next evening, and she had no idea how she was supposed to act. Was she supposed to pretend that it had never happened? Was she supposed to address it? Maybe she just shouldn't show up for patrol at all. She could always fake being sick…Granted, she had never once pretended to be sick to get out of something, and she was morally opposed to it. But this was an emergency.

But no. She was Hermione Granger. She wouldn't be intimidated by that blond ferret. Never.

But even as she thought that, she had to admit that a part of her – a small part, but a part nonetheless – had been intrigued and tempted by his offer. She _could_ use a distraction. Harry and Ginny had both taken to telling her that she was so tightly wound that she would be snapping any moment. And some days it felt like all her friends had more satisfying love lives than she did. Ginny had Dean (though she had admitted to Hermione recently, after eating half a box of chocolates and sneaking a bit of fire whiskey from the Hog's Head) that she still dreamt about Harry on a regular basis. Harry, of course, could have any girl he wanted. He just chose not to go after a girl he wasn't interested in. Ron – well, the less said about Ron, the better. Even Parvati, who Hermione wasn't even positive she could consider a friend, almost always had a guy on her arm.

And that left Hermione. She had kissed Viktor Krum a couple of times and that had been it. That was the extent of her love life. She had thought, just like everyone else in the school if Malfoy could be believed, that she and Ron would finally get together this year. But no. Ron had alternated between snapping at her and giving her the silent treatment, and then had promptly begun shoving his tongue down the throat of Hermione's dorm-mate. And now they weren't speaking at all.

The sounds of feet on the stairs roused her from her thoughts. Before she could jump off the bed and pretend to be pulling her nightgown on, the dormitory door opened and Ginny stepped in, her hair damp from a shower post-Quidditch practice.

"I didn't see you in the library, so I figured you must be up here," Ginny said matter-of-factly.

"I suppose it'd make sense that you wouldn't look for me in the common room right now," Hermione replied wryly.

"It'd make perfect sense, seeing as how Won-Won is trying to suck Lav-Lav's lips off. Just wait, she's going to have to go to Madam Pomfrey to have them magicked back on."

"That'd be the best thing to come out of this whole ugly messy," Hermione acknowledged, laying back down on her bed.

Ginny dropped down beside her. "You can't let my dumb-arse brother get you down, Hermione. No matter how much Ron cares for you, he's still got some growing up to do before he's actually worthy of you. And remember what you told me?" she added, poking Hermione in the side. "When I was upset because Harry hadn't asked me to the Yule Ball? You told me that I should get out, date some people, open myself up a bit. And I did. And it's worked out beautifully. I mean, granted, Harry still hasn't asked me out, but I'll try not to hold that against him."

"You're in a relationship anyway," Hermione reminded her.

"That is literally the only reason I'm not holding it against him."

Hermione couldn't help by laugh. "You're every bit as much a mess as I am."

"But I'm probably having more fun."

"Yeah, you probably are…" Hermione trailed off thoughtfully. "I met Draco Malfoy in the library. And I think…I think he came onto me."

"Ew?"

"I don't know. He's a bully. He's an arsehole. He's – well, he's a lot of things. But I was also a little…intrigued. A part of me wanted to take him up on his offer."

"You're tempted?" Ginny's eyebrows shot up.

"Yeah." Hermione tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I am."

"Well, it wouldn't hurt for you to get some snogging in," Ginny told her. "But Draco Malfoy? He's a bully."

"I know. I know he is. This is a terrible idea, isn't it? It'd be a horribly stupid decision."

"It would be. But then again, Rob made a horribly stupid decision and he seems to be having the time of his life."

Hermione wasn't sure if that was actually reassuring.

The next morning found her keeping an unusually close eye on the Slytherin table. Malfoy seemed to be the same as ever, laughing and joking, holding court. But…perhaps it was just her imagination…she couldn't help noticing that every minute or so his eyes would dart her way. Had it always been this way? Was it just because he could feel her watching him? But he didn't call her out the way he would have done if the attention was unreciprocated.

And so, she found herself following him after breakfast to the library. He sat down heavily at the table that had been occupied by the fourth year the night before, and resolutely pulled out what Hermione suspected was his essay for Snape.

Wondering just what exactly she planned to do, she strolled over to him, asked, "Is this seat taken?" and sat down in the empty chair next to his.

He gaped at her, more taken aback than anything. She smiled at him sweetly.

"So, does this mean you've considered my offer?" he asked her softly. She noticed the sweet, clean smell that seemed to be wafting her way. Aftershave? Cologne? Either way, she had to admit that she quite liked it.

"I've considered it," she said noncommittally.

"And?"

"I haven't decided."

She thought he heard him groan in frustration. "Then why are you here?"

"To help you with your essay, of course. I've got mine done, but you look as if you're struggling." She thoroughly enjoyed the way he glared at her, incensed at her little dig.

"For the last time, Granger, I don't need any help with this bloody essay!"

"Did you remember how to spell your name?"

The curse he gave could have made milk curdle.

"Such language, Malfoy. And you call yourself a gentleman." She clucked her tongue and pulled his parchment over so she could read just what exactly he had written. At least he had fixed his name.

Shaking her head at what little he had already written, she got to her feet and disappeared into the stacks of books. She appeared a moment later, carrying the two books she had found most helpful on the subject, and set them down on the table. She couldn't help but wonder if this was what hormones did to a person – one second you hated them, and the next you found yourself helping them with their homework, even though they didn't deserve it in the slightest.

 _I'm going mad. I'm going bloody mad_.

While Malfoy didn't seem particularly inclined to accept her help, after she pointed out a couple of especially helpful paragraphs in one of the books, he begrudgingly decided to take her advice.

"Fine," he said as he set his quill down an hour and a half later. He had just written his conclusion, and the essay had come in at a little over three feet. Snape would be pleased. "You know what you're talking about when it comes to homework."

"That's my point. And look, now your essay is done and you won't have to worry about it for the rest of the weekend. And that's probably a good thing, seeing as how we have patrol tonight." She got to her feet, stretching.

"Was that honestly it?" He peered up at her, frowning. "You really joined me in the library just to help me with my homework?"

"I really hate sloppy homework."

"Apparently so." He slowly reread what he had written. "What I don't get is _why_. Surely my homework is no concern of yours. It's every man – or woman – out there for themselves."

"I suppose I did it because you showed a slight bit of compassion last night. And I was intrigued."

His eyes met hers. "Are you still intrigued?"

She allowed herself a small smirk. "Maybe. And clearly, you're intrigued by me."

"If I wasn't I never would have suggested myself as your distraction."

Hermione was a bit stunned that he'd admitted it. "Why? You don't like me. In fact, you hate me."

"Hate is such a strong word."

"You hate me."

"Yes. But you've grown up nicely, Granger. And right now, we both could use a distraction."

She mulled that over. "I see."

He watched her, waiting to see what she would say next.

"I'll see you tonight, Malfoy," was the answer. And with that she once more left the library, this time very aware of the way his eyes followed her hips. She glanced over her shoulder and sure enough, he was staring after her, dark gray eyes burning with desire. She felt heat swamp her body, burn away all rational decision. And maybe, just maybe, the time had come to forget rationales and responsibilities. Malfoy was dark and dangerous and a real arsehole. But he was also a distraction. And Merlin's beard, she needed one.

That evening she dressed with a little extra care. There wasn't much she could do about her school robes, but she made sure to choose ones that fit perfectly. She smudged on a bit of makeup, and she ran a brush through her hair a few times before deeming herself ready.

8pm found her walking across the entrance hall to join Malfoy. He nodded at her. "Good evening, Granger."

"Good evening," she responded politely.

Without another word they began their rounds, walking up one corridor and down another and moving between floors. And as they walked, it felt as if a knot of tension tightened between them, pulling them together like a bizarre game of Tug of War. Every time he glanced at her, every time he accidentally brushed against her, she felt as if someone had set her on fire. Heat pooled in her stomach, spreading through her veins into her blood. She felt like a livewire, sparking dangerously, threatening to explode any second.

And then suddenly Malfoy was grabbing her hand and yanking her into an empty broom closet. She felt him press her against the back wall, heard the click of the door closing, and smelled that cloud of cologne as it engulfed her.

Without thinking, just feeling, she reached out and pulled him against her. For a brief moment they stood there, body to body, suspended in time and decision. And then she cupped his face and pulled his lips down to meet hers. He responded eagerly, his lips soft and yielding as he kissed her back. His tongue pressed into her mouth, and his hand slid around to cup the back of her neck. His fingers tangled in her hair.

And just like that, there was no going back. No matter what happened after this, she knew that she and Draco Malfoy would always share this moment. It was a quiet distraction, nothing more, but for the first time in weeks her mind was quiet.

Later that night, as she crawled into bed, she would mull over the idea that Draco Malfoy could be such a good distraction. Indeed, he was probably the best one she could come up with.

And as she closed her eyes, she smiled to herself. She had another patrol with him the next night, and she was quite sure by that time, she would need another distraction.


End file.
